The Plague Doctor's Daughter

32. Matteo

"It's brand new. Put it on. It is yours," he said with an encouraging nod.

Giovanna's demeanor didn't soften at the offer; if anything, her scowl intensified. "This was hers, was it not? A token for the girl you were to marry that she never got to wear?" Her questions were pointed, but her voice was less sure, quivering as she emerged from behind the screen with the pieces in her trembling grip.

Matteo took a small step backward. "Yes, but the tailor's apprentice . . . he delivered the finished garment only after Francesca had no use for it. You appear to be her size and . . . and I—"

Coming closer, Giovanna thrust the clothes against his chest.

"I cannot accept this. Return my dress so I can go," she said with a defiant pucker of her sweet lips.

He caught her hand before she could retreat. "But yours is dirty, and it smells like smoke. I will gladly have my laundress wash it for you. Until then—"

Giovanna forced herself loose from his hold. "I am quite capable of doing my own laundry," she said with a glint of her eyes. "So I will beg you, please return my dress at once."

With a sigh, he relented. "Of course," he said, going to a wardrobe and exchanging the elegant attire for the worn garments, still confused at the girl's objections. After handing the sooty pieces to Giovanna, he waited by the windows while fabric rustled from behind the screen.

Life down below in Piazza San Marco was stirring awake as the townspeople began their daily business. Women with baskets full of produce left the market, men in capes decorated with fancy sashes headed to the palace, and children followed by loyal dogs ran errands for coins.

"Will you meet me at the convent just before sundown?" Giovanna asked only when she reappeared, threading the bodice's eyelets.

It was Matteo's turn to furrow his brows. "Why would I do that?"

She looked up, the light from the window creating a bright path across her face. "I was hoping you'd have a new plan to get Ottavia out, but even if we're not clear on the details—"

"Absolutely not," he said, shaking his head as he closed the gap between them. Taking the ribbon from her fingers, he set to finish the task. "We are no closer to knowing what we are dealing with—including both Nicco's shadowy activities and the contents of his warehouse—and this is not the time to rush. I will consult with my father later today and perhaps also call on a few friends for assistance. I ask that you remain patient in the meantime."

Matteo finished and tied a neat bow, but Giovanna was hesitant to meet his gaze. Tipping her chin up with his finger, he saw that the tears had disappeared, but it had not been replaced with her earlier jubilance. Happy that at least she wasn't opposing his call for more consideration in her actions, he gently kissed her lips once more.

She didn't reciprocate.

"If I have offended you in any way, I am truly sorry," he said after he'd pulled away, fearing the need for an explanation regarding what had obviously led to this egregious misunderstanding. "My intentions were pure."

Giovanna cocked her head. "How so?"

"I know how uncomfortable the trip through our tunnels last night made you, so I wanted to avoid a similar upset. Wearing that dress would have more easily allowed me to take you through the main house without stirring undue questions."

"As if I belonged here?" Giovanna whispered, slowly drawing out each word as if speaking to a child.

"Well, yes I suppose," he said, ignoring the implied disdain. One contentious issue at a time was plenty. "The emergence of a gentlewoman through our front door would be less conspicuous to passers-by than . . . ahem, well . . . someone like you."

The muscles in Giovanna's jaw clenched and she nodded vigorously, the movement completely out of line with the reaction Matteo expected.

"I see," she muttered, spinning around and grabbing her cloak before he even realized what was happening. Only after she'd turned the key in the bedchambers lock and ran out did he follow.

"Giovanna! Wait! I didn't mean—"

It was too late. She'd sprinted through the sitting room and was already heading toward the grand staircase. Even as he bound after her, Matteo could only watch as she rushed down the marble risers, her shoes tapping with each harried step. With the entry door unmanned and inexplicably wide open, she didn't need to slow before stepping on a discarded piece of paper and charging out of the palazzo.

Only after he'd gotten to the bottom of the stairs and picked up the battered paper did Matteo realize that he was standing in the same, hastily wiped-up pool of blood that now stained the folded note with Giovanna's footprint. Worse yet, the message—written in an impeccable script, but punctured with a neat, yet blood-soaked cut—was unexpectedly personal.

D. Barozzi—Cease your meddling or you shall pay.